The Cobblepot Conspiracy
by Duker-2014
Summary: The death of Rupert Thorne has set a media panic. It's shrouded in mystery and is a thread of something more elaborate. The GCPD ruling is called into question by the public, and Batman himself. It's clear that Gotham is the target of an unhealthy desire but the one pulling the strings is an even greater mystery than the murder. RUINS OF GOTHAM 3 - Sequel to "Blackest Knight." R
1. A Cold Reception

**Author's Note: **

_This is the third story is my Ruins of Gotham anthology. It is intended to continue my own continuity of events, such as Penguin having more gang control than others, like Rupert Thorne for instance. In my version of things, Penguin is already established as an imposing figure in Gotham's criminal underworld even though he maintains a public image of innocence. To avoid confusion, I am aware that normally Rupert Thorne would be on top of the power chain, with the likes of Falcone and Black Mask, but not in my Gotham. So as fair warning as to avoid confusion or any other issue, I just wanted to make that clear. And Thorne's relationship with Penguin will be explained deeper as the story unfolds. Hope you enjoy The Cobblepot Conspiracy._

* * *

Chapter 1:  
A Cold Reception

For being called the Iceberg Lounge, it wasn't that cold. Rupert Thorne placed the current temperature barely over 70 degrees, a comfortable desire even if the men inside gave him a cold reception. With their eyes burning with distaste and judgment, Thorne did his best to brush off the unwelcoming response. This wasn't going to be the worst aspect of his time there. If those cold stares made him flinch, he wouldn't survive the first thirty seconds of the meeting with his employer.

He walked through the dining room. The tables were filled with extravagant dishes and high class meals, the guests dressed casually in business attire had a warmer greeting, even if it had a hint of a grueling undertone. Thorne's eyes drifted to the plaster walls, furnished with a fine Italian wallpaper, neatly trimmed in golden brown strips of carved wood. Thorne couldn't help but show a faint smirk at the sight. The Lounge's decor created a false image. The Lounge is many things, but flashy wasn't one of them.

The Iceberg Lounge attracted citizens of all classifications but was distinctly more popular with the wealthy and the criminal. A normal Gothamite dining there was rare. If there was, he or she was probably in deep with the wrong crowd and looking for a way out. The high foot traffic and the ever growing population made the Lounge one of the more popular attractions in Gotham, if Gotham had any competition. This made it the ideal place for dealings with the Black Market, dealing drugs, and for gangs to strategically plan their next move against their rivals. The only thing it wasn't good for was privacy and peace of mind.

Thorne push open a door and entered a smaller room, which seated men around a medium sized round table playing poker, in the midst of a thin layer of cigar smoke. He could feel the tension in the air with his entry and could feel the temperature drop.

"'Bout time you showed up. Thought you's gonna miss your own funeral" one of the men said. He was short and pudgy, dressed formally in a tuxedo. A thick strip of hair stretched from temple to temple along the backside of his skull. A monocle covered his right eye, its glassy reflection mirrored his intent. His left hand was wrapped in bandages, which resembled a flipper. A black top lay in front of him on the table, and a cane rested comfortably over his legs. Oswald Cobblepot, better known as "The Penguin" in the criminal underworld, was one of the most feared and respected men in all of Gotham, thanks in part to his fortune and the Iceberg Lounge. His nickname derived from the warm-blooded flightless birds inhabiting Antarctica as well for his fondness of his choice in attire, the tuxedo. "We were just discussing you" he said with a sadistic smirk.

Oswald Cobblepot knew how to invoke fear. His entire career proved that. Everyone who worked for him was challenged by his intimidating personality. He may not be the most threatening Crime Boss in Gotham, but he had the shortest fuse. When people let him down, Cobblepot ripped into them like sharks smelling blood in a water. Rupert Thorne had a recent setback. His failure reassured he would be punished for his unwillingness to commit. Only, he wasn't sure how.

There was a short pause between his next remark. Tension stirred, leaving Throne stiff. "You've let me down one too many times. I've given you more than enough chances, and to be frank, I've given all I can."

Thorne's expression melted. His heart pounded aggressive against his rib cage, his pulse ached. His throat itching, his lips dry, eyes stinging, sweat dripping like a never-ending river.

"I gave you a simple task. A task which I provided both money, and assets to obtain a briefcase. And you failed. You let your reputation and ego cloud your eyes."

"I'm sorry boss, it, it won't happen again."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, son." Cobblepot sighed and with his stubby hand he pulled a cigar and lighter from his jacket pocket. "Now," he began before breathing smoke from his lit cigar, "you have a lot of enemies, Falcone, Sionis, the ventriloquist who burned your Comedy Club down while back, and now me." Another deep breath interrupted his lecture. "I should feed you to 'em, but that wouldn't be very fair to me now would it?" He smiled at the thought of his next remark, leaving Thorne more than uncomfortable. "Here's what I'm gonna do. If I wasn't so sane I'd feed you to them sharks, but seeing as I'm feeling extra generous, I'm gonna let you off with a warning." He pulled a cigar cutter from his pocket and slid it's cold, rigid, metal surface over Thorne's jagged thumb.

"Mr. Cobblepot, please!"

"I made you a deal. Get me that briefcase and I'd help you redeem your reputation. Consider this payment for your failure."

"Please, I'll…"

Cobblepot pressed the blades together and Thorne's thumb fell to the floor. Blood seeped from the severed digit as Thorne caressed his wound. The men surrounding Cobblepot grabbed Thorne and dragged him outside before throwing him to the wet concrete. Cobblepot followed them. "Let this be a lesson for you. When I give an order I expect it to be followed. Understand? If you fail me again you'll lose more than your thumb." Cobblepot spent the next short moments glaring down at the peasant that laid below him. He saw a man who maintained a pathetic appearance, helpless as a newborn succumb to intolerance and damnation. The sight emphasized Cobblepot's failure to accept anything less than success.

As Cobblepot polished off the short stick of ash he felt the cold chill of a power-white snow flake melt on the bridge of his nose. He may earn his nickname from the Antarctic bird, but his fondness for the cold was non-existent. His tuxedo attire provided no insulation and let the chill breeze seep through his skin. However, the cold didn't shake his dominance. With the cigar still burning between his chipped lips, he took the bud and tossed it at Thorne, the smoke sowing a hole in the back of his jacket. "Come on boys, show's over. And I need a drink." The faded, unpleasant smirk of distaste Cobblepot bore smelt of raw, burnt shame, in an otherwise plain stare, one Thorne never saw in such a rare, perfect fury. Cobblepot's guards followed him inside the Lounge, leaving Thorne to his own consequence.

Smothering his hand, Thorne slowly rose from the moistened asphalt to see Cobblepot disappear beyond the doors of his haven, all hope vanishing with him. Fear never set it's dense, hollow touch in Thorne's vocab of emotion before Cobblepot entered the picture. It's embrace weighed him down like an anvil tied around a neck. He was a slave to an order not his own, an order that took full control over his self-empowerment and brought him down to a level only the poor and oppressed could relate. He would never admit it, he still had his pride, what little was left, but he would never confess to weakness, even if it ruined the small shard of dignity, he would still own his pride. For the past two years he succumbed to Cobblepot's demands, and so far nothing came of it. All of Cobblepot's promises were broken fantasies lost on the edge of time. With no savor-able reputation, no pathway toward a fresh, clean slate, no loyal men from his past life, there was only pain and a fool's hoe for a now distant promise. As long as Thorne remained a leash around Cobblepot's hand, fear would always have him.


	2. A Cold Reception pt 2

Chapter 1:

A Cold Reception (pt. 2)

The night was colder, harsher, and more brutal when Thorne returned home. His skin chilled under winter's frigid punishment. The wind's breeze, more intense since Thorne left the Iceberg Lounge, lacked reassurance. His home had become the last and only place where he still felt a sense of satisfaction, the only piece of worth from an otherwise unsavory existence. The halls were still the same, painted with cherished memories and the grim sense of a forgotten success. It's pictures mocked him when he passed their blank, yet crude glares. Like a painting or photo, he too felt trapped forever in time, a cage he painted with his own brush, brittle, and no longer effective.

His wound, still fresh, swelled in the warmth of his palm. A faint circle of purple and black cartilage surrounded it's peeling dry skin. The blood had hardened and was chipping like dry paint. He passed the TV on his way to the bathroom and it turned it on for background noise. A Gotham City News broadcast was on its home station and Thorne decided to leave it there. He watched the news every night but wasn't a fan of what it had to say, like most Americans. His viewing was only meant for Vikki Vale.

Vikki Vale was the new late-night lead anchor, recently being promoted for an on-location field reporter thanks in part to her several award winning stories involving Gotham's ever growing crime and stories drawn from myths of Gotham's ominous, vigilante Batman. Vale's straight, glowing blond hair was cut to end at the tip of her chin. Her small, lushous red lips echoed her in-fatuous blue eyes. Thorne envisioned her soft, tight, warm thighs, her sexually charged ambitions performed in a raw fury, and the perfect body she kept hidden under her attractive professional outfits. She fulfilled Thorne's late night desires, and on more than one occasion, substitution. Obsession wasn't healthy, but Thorne wasn't on a diet. He was only a man acting out his fantasies.

Off-air, Vale was known for her high-profile, highly publicized relationship with Gotham's wealthy, bonofide prince, Bruce Wayne. Wayne had it all, the looks, the fame, the fortune, and even the most beautiful woman in all of Gotham. The very thought put a sour taste in Thorne's dry, cotton mouth.

Sitting beside Vale was her co-anchor, Jack Ryder. Ryder ran a successful radio show outside of his GCN commitment. It was controversial yet extremely popular with the millions who tuned in. All of Gotham admired Ryder's aggressiveness and relentless persistence drove him to uncover the truths of what he sought to exploit. The rough, rugged demeanor of his strong jawline, perfectly combed jet black hair captured his organic, unmatched persona. His money and influence made him a dangerous man in Gotham, which is why he's maintained a strong following with the general public.

The current headline was focused on Arkham Asylum and it's primary psychologist Dr. Jonathan Crane. Crane had been receiving media attention and praise for his distinguishing treatment of patients under his care and for his strategy of focusing on the treatment and removal of fear. His performances had earned him a success rate of 80%, the highest rating of a single psychologist at Arkham since it's opening. Vikki Vale began the report.

"Mayor Nolan is said to be honoring Dr. Crane later this week with a special congratulatory ceremony thanking him for his award winning practices."  
Thorne snorted at the remark and opened the bathroom mirror for ointment and bandages to address his wound. He held his hand under the faucet, his hand trembling under it's soothing stream of warm water. It's pressure stung at first, but calmed upon application. After cleansing the wound he wrapped a protective cloth around his hand. The warm fabric barely numbed the pain. Thorne took a bottle of pain pills from the shelf and swallowed them without the assistance of water. He turned the faucet off and stared hard in the mirror. His reflection was unrecognizable. It was the first time he'd seen himself in days. His hair was greasy and disheveled, the five o'clock shadow had now grown into uneven patches across his face, his nose was bloody and bruised, and his brown eyes were a pale white bathing in a red sting above a line of thick fatigue. His plump, wrinkled cheeks hung tender and swollen against his creased chin.

Thorne left the bathroom to get a cold beer from the refrigerator. He downed a quarter of it in one sip. Alcohol was the only cure for his sorrows. It's cold, bittersweet flavor soothed his grief as he coped with his new life as a slum. His life used to mean more than a worthless excuse for existence. When he lost it all the night his Comedy Club was burned, he reached out to an unknown hand, and for the first time, there was no clear indication what would follow. Oswald Cobblepot's unnatural embrace was the hand that saved him from a certain demise. He wasn't known for such hospitality. Thorne believed it wasn't so much condolence as it was pity. The only thing that pulled Cobblepot's hand like a puppet string was the fact of Thorne's misfortune. Thorne didn't try too hard to hide his melancholy, he just wanted to survive. By keeping Cobblepot out of the public spotlight and maintaining his image as a simple businessman, Thorne was promised his old life. Cobblepot's true intentions were falsified under the belief he was nothing more than an ordinary citizen. There was nothing ordinary about Oswald Cobblepot. His intentions weren't pure, but were his own. And he was promised Gotham would know them before too long.

Jack Ryder's deep voice transcended Vale's sweet, angelic tone and pulled him from his narration. The camera had switched to his face, with a city no doubt hungry for what he had to say. Thorne shrugged it off and continued drinking. "In other Arkham related news, inmate Arnold Wesker has reportedly broken out of the facility early yesterday afternoon. No word yet on how Wesker managed to escape but sources close say this wasn't his first attempt."

Thorne's bottle of alcohol stopped horizontal with the walls. He slowly lowered his head and addressed the broadcast. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, he increased the volume. He let Ryder continue his address.

"Wesker's primary physician, Dr. Crane, has not yet commented on this story but is expected to address the matter before his congratulatory ceremony given to him by the mayor." Ryder turned to Vale with a smirk of hilarity on his face. "The irony isn't lost on me Vikki." She smiled at his joke while Thorne turned off the TV before he could hear her response.

A drink from the bottle couldn't sooth him, and normally that's all it took. He hid in his past and now its darkest aspect had returned to haunt his present. His fears were cemented and in the concrete poison they breathed. If he had a choice, if life was even remotely fair, he'd pick to die under Cobblepot's grasp than those of another madman. Thorne and Wesker had an unnatural past, one he didn't care too much to dwell on. Forgetting that memory was another part of Cobblepot's promise. He'd managed to keep it up 'til now, but life has a way of delivering the unexpected at your doorstep.

A distant voice called Thorne's name, faintly from the shadows. "Good evening Mr. Thorne, I believe you remember my name."

Thorne did, of course. The sound of that voice never left his memory. Thorne chose not to respond. Instead, another glass full of alcohol was the only response he knew how to give.

"Of course you do. How could you forget?" The voice was closer, yet still remote. "You ruined my life. And I know you think I ruined yours, but the fact is there is much we both must apologize for."

Thorne kept drinking, and the distance slowly refused to fade. Thorne believed his heart was going to burst through his rib cage and keep beating blood after it fell to the floor. His wound started stinging from the build up of sweat under the cloth that covered his hand. But there was nothing he could do but let it corrode him like an infectious disease on a hot summer's day. Thorne emptied his bottle and stumbled to the refrigerator for another, not finding one. Shit he thought to himself, trying to hide the fear that came over his face.

"Please now Mr. Throne, don't make me beg."

Thorne swallowed hard before his response, and wasn't sure of his delivery. "As far as I'm concerned, you're the only one who needs to apologize."

"You're mistaken Mr. Thorne, I only want to see this all the way through. See what you couldn't see. What's been in front of you all along."

Thorne reached for the lamp and turned it on. The man stood in the narrow, faintly lit hallway, darkness surrounding him, a handgun gripped in his right hand, aimed at Thorne. Thorne's eyes were fixed on the piercing barrel of the handgun. Nothing but brief flashes of disgust fell between Thorne's narrow, yet slightly exaggerated eyes as he realized everything he had was now on the edge of being lost. Sweat warmed his cheeks, saliva formed in the lump of his throat, and his cold, desperate look turned sour. Mercy was a lifetime away. Prayers wouldn't change the coldness of the devil's reality. His body fell stiff. Guilt-stricken, and hollow, blackness fell around him. All that was heard was an echo of a fatal gunshot.


	3. Bullets and Body-bags

Chapter 2:  
Bullets and Bodybags

Commissioner Gordon stared at Rupert Thorne's apartment in discontent, realizing it's look was no different than any of the other crime scene's he'd entered throughout his career. The blood soaked carpet, the splash of red on the back wall, yellow caution tape, and the roomful of investigators made the sight all too familiar. When the call came in, Gordon figured it'd be a case the entire force would slave over for weeks. You could prepare yourself for all the surprises crime had to offer and depending on evidence, foul play, suspicions, and numerous suspects, you could spend all your time on a case you may never see the end of. That was just one of the prices you paid working for the Gotham City Police Department.

Gordon made his way through the apartment, examining every detail he could without standing still to look at it. His men were already at the scene, and judging by the situation, they had been there a while. Photographers, sketch artists, other investigations were all present, prepping for the large amount of paperwork that awaited them when they returned to the station. Gordon found Detective Harvey Bullock in the middle of the living room, standing between two investigative reporters, in the midst of conversation. Bullock noted Gordon's arrival with the nod of his head.

"Hey chief," Bullock motioned.

"I need details." Gordon said, anticipating the answer, fully knowing he wasn't prepared.

Without a word, Bullock walked toward the hallway in front of the other investigators. Gordon followed. "The call came in a couple hours ago, and the way I see it, this is gonna have us scratchin' our asses for a while" Bullock noted.

"I was afraid you'd say that" Gordon said dryly.

"Oh, it gets better" Bullock remarked. His response earned him a curious look from Gordon, an expression he always took pride in. It was his guilty pleasure. "There was a pistol in Thorne's left hand when we found him. It's in a bag now. We're dusting it for prints to see if they match the one's on his hand" Bullock continued.

"You think it was suicide?"

"Too early to tell. It's too small of a case for anyone else to worry about. This one's on us. The news was on the TV when we found him."

"Why does that matter?"

"It doesn't. News in this town would make anyone want to shoot themselves" Bullock said.

Gordon couldn't help but agree. Bullock's tone was dark but not untrue. It was the sad reality Gotham carried in it's everyday society.

Bullock stopped in the middle of the narrow hallway connecting to the living room and overlooked Rupert Thorne's corpse. His body lay on the floor below them, a single gunshot wound through his chest, with the rest of him soaking in a mild puddle of blood dripping from a thin stream in the corner of his chapped lips, which were open enough to slide in dime between them. There was sympathy in Gordon's eyes, and considering the situation, it was a rare expression of grief.

"We found him like this when we got in," Bullock began. "Blood everywhere, stains on the carpet, the works."

Gordon knelt beside the body and searched it over, carefully and patiently as to not tamper the evidence. Gordon noted the bandage across Thorne's right hand. The blood had long since dried through the cloth and his corpse was starting to give off a nauseous odor. Standing to look Bullock in the eye, Gordon studied every detail of Thorne's apartment carefully, from the spray of blood on the wall beside them, the scattered clothing, the dirty dishes, the chipped wallpaper, the stained windows, and the blood soaked carpet, the half empty beer bottle on the counter, and the crumpled newspaper by the foot of the couch. A long hallway ran to the back of the apartment with two adjacent rooms on each end. The bathroom in the middle, and a narrow closet on the other side. Wooden doors closed off all the rooms, with the exception of the far right. It led to the bedroom, and like the living room, Gordon sensed it too was piled with filth. With a heavily pronounced sigh Gordon turned back to Bullock. "How closely did your men study this room?"

"Like we were preparing for a test."

"Was there a note anywhere that could testify to the alleged suicide?"

"We've swept top to bottom and the only papers we found were bank recites, unpaid bills, and porn mags."

Gordon sighed. "Then check Thorne's phone records, emails, anything that might be a link to the last person he talked to before his death. I want all we can get on his contacts before we leave. If this wasn't a simple suicide it could easily be a killer setting it up to look that way."

"Either way, least this scumbag is off the streets."

Gordon responded with only a murmured grunt, an indication Bullock took as sheltered agreement. Rupert Thorne was many things, and Gordon was glad to finally see him gone, but not like this. Murder was a solution for everything when the easiest ones are without violence. Even mob bosses and crime lords were targets and the police force didn't stand the same chance. The only thing that could be guaranteed was another murder investigation the following morning, sometimes even more than one. Gordon's eyes were devoid of any expression at the thought. When he moved to Gotham he swore to himself he'd make a difference. Four years in and nothing had changed. Poverty increased just as crime rates spiked. Gordon attributed that distress to Gotham's long history of ignoring the justice system. Too many times the city went down the dark road, only to realize it was already to far out with no chance of finding it's way back. It's once peaceful image, shredded, and staring through it's own reflective innocence, was building a new history, piece by broken piece. There's was no room for innocence in Gotham. It's suffering was a disease the people refused to treat. Gordon knew it'd take time to find the cure, but in an environment like Gotham's, he didn't know if he had as much time to give.

Gordon's attention returned to Bullock's bulky physique. A man of his weight should be hitting the gym five times a week instead of gaining calories after each morning donut. Outward appearances didn't shake Gordon's impressions. Bullock was a loyal and faithful detective, that wasn't to be questioned. After a second of regaining a sense of reality Gordon spoke. "Any word from Miggs or Matthews?"

"They're in the bedroom looking for evidence. I told 'em fat chance but they insisted" Bullock responded.

Gordon left Bullock's side with only a smirk and left for Thorne's bedroom, hoping that either of his detectives had some news worthy to share. When he walked in the room Detective Mathews was searching the closet while Miggs' attention was on Thorne's desk. Both were wearing blue plastic gloves, while a photographer snapped photos in the corner of the room. Gordon quickly looked over his surroundings, examining only a typical bedroom. As a cop and Commissioner of Police, Gordon knew that you could never rule out anything, especially when every wall held secrets. Eventually, with enough persistence, they'd be revealed.

"Give me something good boys."

Miggs and Matthews continued going through possible evidence even after Gordon asked his question. "Nothing to report." Miggs answered. "You'd think that this guy would've had at least one secret stash of goodies." Miggs never met Gordon's eyes during his remark. Instead he kept focused on Thorne's mountains of items across his desk.

"Keep looking. Mob bosses are known for their secrecy, not public display." He didn't have to repeat himself for Matthews as Matthews instinctively responded after Gordon's delivery.

"Notin' but shoes and clothes here boss" Matthews said as he held a flashlight to the dark corners of the closet. "He has more shoes than my wife."

"Commissioner" an officer called from behind him. The officer's name was John Blake, he was new to the force and only 25 years old. Gordon hired him because of his strong passion for the law, his dedication for serving the common good, and for being the youngest cadet to score highly on all their tests in training. Gordon acknowledge his younger colleague and motioned for him to continue. "Thorne's phone records just came through. We've got a list of the last ten people he either received calls from or sent out."

Gordon grabbed the papers Blake handed him and looked them over. Most were disposable names or common calls. When he saw a familiar name, his eyes widened. He looked over at Bullock who now stood beside him. "According to this the last person Thorne had a conversation with over the phone was with Quincy Sharp, Warden of Arkham."

"Wonder what Sharp wanted to talk about?" Bullock asked.

Gordon didn't know the answer. The truth is it could be for any logical reason but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't surprised. This wouldn't have been a normal house call to the Asylum, this had to be something bigger, even possibly tied to Thorne's death. Gordon had a famous saying around the station, it was that once you become a Gotham City Detective you weren't allowed to believe in coincidence, and this was too serious of one to not be overlooked.

"Okay, let's wrap it up. The blood-hungry journalists and reporters will be outside in a matter of minutes, salivating for something we can't let them sink their teeth into."

"Chief?" Bullock asked in mild surprise.

"Look, until we get in contact with Arkham and a match comes back from the gun there's really nothing we can do. We don't base our job on suspicions Harvey, we base them on facts and right now we don't have enough evidence to justify a ruling yet. For all we know this could be a homicide. For God-sakes we hardly have a decent lead. I'm not going to stand here and pretend this was a suicide. It doesn't make sense."

"The guy was washed up. His business went under and he turned a gun on himself. What more do you need?"

"What I need is for you not to get so deep in a theory where if we discover the opposite, we're not stuck with tons of paperwork and press releases that we need to retract." Gordon brushed Bullock's shoulder with genuine unease and passed through the living room. As Commissioner, Gordon knew his gut told the truth. He didn't get this far in his career if he had incorrect intuition and he wasn't about ready to argue with a man who had less than half the professional expertise he did. If he put Harvey Bullock in charge of fronting a murder investigation the results would be embarrassing for both the department and for Gordon. Bullock was trustworthy but as far as obedience, he was lacking.

Bullock followed Gordon as he approached the door, frustrated, and mildly offended. Gordon was respectable and highly honorable. His leadership qualities were decisive, orderly, yet drew a harsh reaction among some of the detectives. As a fairly new Commissioner, Gordon drew on traits from previous Police Commission, Gillian Loeb. He knew how to get things done and didn't settle for anything less than success. Unlike Loeb, Gordon knew how to interact with people, both civilian, and criminal and knew exactly what he wanted in the right moments. Bullock's relationship with Gordon was a strained one. Their professional partnership was purely business and their affinity for upholding the law was met with similar passion. As for their personal connection, their respected morals couldn't be farther between them.

Gordon passed through the hallway leading to the stairway outside as his men led the stretcher which carried Thorne's body to the ambulance that was parked on the curb. Gordon stopped and watched them fold the legs to lift him into the back. Bullock stopped beside him and lit a cigar, breathing past his boss as the ambulance drove away.

"Look at ya Gordon. One less dirt bag on the streets and all ya can think about is the guilt that clouds your conscience. How can you not see this for what it really is? A cleansing" Bullock said as he blew a fresh breath of smoke away from Gordon's face.

"Because law used to mean something in this town Harvey. People used to be able to walk through the streets without fear of getting shot, mugged or beaten for just going through their day. Then one day all the thugs in the city pick up semi-automatics and start making it on the evening news. It's not why I took this job. Now I don't know if I can even make a difference."

"Then ya shoulda came before, when this town had a shot at being more than bullets and body bags. That's all Gotham is chief. You're looking at it. Nothin' ta see but death and disappointment."

Gordon thought hard on the words that left Bullock's lips. Gotham's glory days shouldn't be kept sheltered in the past. It's present shouldn't be isolated in darkness, and it's future should have more hope than a legacy of it's burdened nature. Gordon moved to Gotham for a purpose, a purpose now he believed long out of reach. If the city could afford decent police training and paid more attention to what really matters instead of enabling gangs and psychos to run free, then maybe he wouldn't worry as much. Gordon knew of only a handful of cops who weren't dirty and sometimes he believed he was the only one who really cared about the city.

Staring ahead at Gotham's musky skyline, a brand of color that was never blue, black, or any color in between, Gordon realized the city truly had a horrid architecture. Buildings were decaying and rotten with the stench of Gotham's imperfection. Early ancestors built cement gargoyles that now hung high above the city to protect those who would inhabit Gotham in the future. Those were the only part of Gotham worth admiring and the only objects that had any real place there. Every time Gordon gazed his eyes on the wonder, he'd feel a refreshed sense of hope. Then again, Gordon never was one for legends.


End file.
